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I know why. Mr. “I am sorry for the way I acted, Lucy. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. It was just a chance that we in particular hit against each other—nothing predestined about it. ’ She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack his fingers playfully. No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows.
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